


Vows

by dansunedisco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jealous Sansa Stark, Jealousy, Jon Snow is King in the North, Light Angst, Love, Post - The Winds of Winter, Post-Canon, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 11:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15412239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: The northern lords send their daughters to the King in the North.-Jon is oblivious. Sansa is lowkey jealous.





	Vows

**Author's Note:**

> written for this prompt: "People pity the KiTN. After everything he went through with the WW and Cersei and Dany, instead of a warm and kind queen he gets one that is as cold as The Wall. Thinking that he would want a new wife or at the very least a mistress, the lords send their most beautiful daughters to try and seduce him. They would soon find out exactly how wrong they judged the queen."
> 
> not 100% what's on the tin, but it's got the bones. :)

Jon unrolled the piece of parchment, quickly glanced over it, and unceremoniously tossed it onto the growing pile on his desk. “Another unwanted invitation,” he remarked, incredulous and more than a little annoyed. Six moons have passed since his coronation -- a formal affair he didn’t want but couldn’t refuse -- and he and Sansa had barely scratched the surface of repairs and restorations they had planned for the north. The Night King had ravaged what winter hadn’t, and the last task on his mind was hosting hordes of guests. But, no matter how he wrote the refusal, visitors rode to their gates.

“Oh?” Sansa hummed. The sound of her quill marking through ledgers filled the chamber, a purposeful noise against the backdrop of a crackling fire and windows battered by winds.  
  
“Aye, Lord Ashwood comes in a sennight.” He rubbed his beard. It was a shade too long now. “His wife too ill to travel, but he sends his two daughters in her stead? I can’t fathom why they’d bother with the trip. Sam tells me Wolf’s Den is prospering.”   
  
“Laena and Lenila Ashwood?” The quill stopped. “Both accomplished ladies.”

“I’m sure of it,” he agreed, “but what of them concerns me?”

“Perhaps Lord Ashwood seeks to fix his daughters a suitable betrothal. It is, after all, the duty of their liege lord to barter these things… and you are that.” The quill scratched at the parchment now; short, forceful strokes. A minute of silence passed with Sansa mercilessly attacking the paper with ink, then: “Perhaps His Grace is being purposefully obtuse with me?”

He’d misstepped, of course, but he couldn’t see how. “Sansa--”

“ _Jon._ For someone so clever, I can’t believe you don’t see what is right before you. Don’t you understand? Have we not played at these games long enough? Can’t you see why every northern lord from Stony Shore to The Bite has paraded themselves through Winterfell? The war is well and done and now they’re happy to overlook a hastily wrought marriage as it suits them. They care not for your counsel nor a portion of our stored grains. Obviously! _You_ are the prize they seek.”

Jon stared at Sansa, his initial shock bleeding quickly into contemplation. It was true enough that his marriage was unexpected. For both him _and_ everyone else. With the truth of his parentage revealed, however, the promise of a blood union between north and south was the only salve to his aunt’s fury -- and, despite rumors and northern opinion he wasn’t entirely oblivious to, it _was_ a marriage Jon respected fully and wholly. He’d sworn in the eyes of the old gods and the new, a vow as solemn as the one he’d made when he’d become a Brother in Black, and again when he became King in the North; and, for him, a promise made in sight of the Heart Tree was binding.

When he thought back to it, however, nearly all his visitors were accompanied by daughters of marriageable age. Perhaps some still remembered King Robert and his proclivity and success in fathering bastards. Perhaps some merely wanted his favor. Perhaps, he thought darkly, some even wanted to see his queen unseated. Connecting the dots were simple, and had to admit: Sansa was not wrong. His wife rarely was.

He went to kneel at her side, gently plucking the quill from her fingers so as to hold her hand in his. “My love,” he said -- a new development in their vocabulary with one another, and one that brought a comely flush to his wife’s face, “they can seek forever and a day, but they will not find me as a prize to be won. _You_ are my wife.”

He held her gaze, watching steadfast as steely ice melted into tenderness. Sometimes Sansa looked upon him in such a way that weakened his knees, as if her love filled all the broken, empty pieces instead of him and made him whole again. He never found the words to say as much, but he hoped his actions sung what he couldn’t. He pressed his lips to her knuckles. _I love you._

“Jon…” She leaned forward and grasped his face in his hands, dragging him in by his ears for a quick, messy kiss. “I… I truly…”

“I know,” he said, the words dancing on the tip of his tongue, too.

She drowned him in kisses then, some long and languid and others nipping and urgent, and it wasn’t long before she gathered her skirts above her hips and he worshipped the sweetness between her legs until she cried out from her peak. Jon, desperate enough, carried her to the edge of his desk -- closer by far than their bed -- and quickly loosened his breeches before entering her with a slow, deliberate thrust. She moaned, hands weakly gripping at his shoulders.

“You’re my queen,” he whispered into her ear, pushing and pulling her by her hips to meet his thrusts, “You’re the only one I want -- the only one I’ll _ever_ want. _Sansa._ ”

She tightened her legs around him, bowing up against his chest. “Yes -- _yes --_ Jon! Gods!”

“Can you peak again?” He bit at her shoulder, mindful of the neckline to her gowns, peppering her straining neck with open-mouthed kissed. “I think you can.” She was grinding on him now, fingers grasping at his hair, his shirt collar, anything she could get them on, and he drank in the fevered pitch of her gasping moans with his own. He felt her coil up, tighter and tighter, until she snapped with a soundless moan and sagged in his arms like a broken bowstring. He followed quickly after, unable to hold on any longer.

He helped her off the desk and tucked himself away as she re-adjusted her skirts, the both of them panting from the exertion. The coupling -- well, that was a new development between them, too, and he still wasn’t able to completely shake away the stunned aftershock every time it happened.

“There’s no need to decline Lord Ashmore,” she said, tucking a piece of hair that had come loose back into her plait. He saw the moment Sansa composed herself, like a candle being lit. “He knows he’s of a house unsuitable for His Grace, but perhaps a match to a Manderly or a Glover would do for them.”

Jon nearly laughed. “You expect me to matchmatch for all my bannermen then, do you?”

“Why not? We’re only giving them what they ask for.” She took her quill up once more with a wry smile. “Their king is a married man, after all.”


End file.
